Morning Fog

Morning fog alters the atmosphere, washing out the background, and painting the foreground in simple shapes.

Not even a falling leaf makes a sound on the dampened earth.

A young doe stands at attention and listens...

...while a buck sniffs the air, depending on non-visual cues.

The ancient oak seems to listen, too, leaning into the fog.
What does he hear?

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Full Moon

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Everlasting Arms

A family in our church hosted a fish fry last night. When we drove through the countryside to their hilltop place, so tantalizing was the aroma that we probably could have found it blindfolded. After we were satiated with delicious food, the musicians pulled out their instruments, and we gathered our chairs around and sang until the stars came out.

A lot of the songs were old, familiar hymns: "I'll Fly Away", "Amazing Grace", "Farther Along", and one that always stirs my memory, "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms".

When I was four, and my sister, Jan, was eleven, she gave me her favorite book, Small Rain, which I still treasure. Now long out of print, it has verses of Scripture, beautifully illustrated by Elizabeth Orton Jones. The last two pages illustrate a verse from Deuteronomy:

The Lord is thy keeper.

The eternal God is thy refuge,

and underneath are the everlasting arms.
Deut 33:27

I remember my Mother reading to me from that book at bedtime. In the daytime, her voice often filled our home with melody, and the song that came from that verse, "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms", was often on her lips.

The night mom died, her family gathered around her bedside and sang hymns, much like we did last night. We held her thin hands and sang into the night, searching our memory for her favorites. With faltering breath, she lingered, and I wonder now if she was waiting for one more song, one last message of comfort that she could leave with us. There was one more, of course. It was the same song we sang last night, about the God whose Everlasting Arms shelter His children. When we sang it, my dear mother flew away to heaven.

When she left, the peace in the room was so pervasive it was almost tangible. Those Arms that held my mother, were also holding us.

Morning Metamorphosis

It had been about eight days since two monarch caterpillars had attached to the geranium in a pot on our front porch and formed chrysalises. I checked them first thing every morning, and Monday, in the dim predawn light, one of them had changed from its lima bean green to black as my cell phone. Little by little, the unique black and orange wing pattern became visible through the translucent case.

By mid-morning, a new female butterfly was suspended on an empty chrysalis, her wings not fully extended. 

She climbed on uncertain legs to a nearby stem, where she hung to dry.

A couple of hours later, she was ready. She climbed to the top of a leaf, pumped her wings, and flew off, high above the trees.

That day, there was a bonus. 

All week, I had searched the geranium in vain for other chrysalises, but there, hanging out to dry, was another new butterfly.

She perched on a blossom brighter than a stoplight in the city. 

The sisters are headed for Mexico, and we hope they'll be back next spring. 

We'll keep the light on for them. 

Linking with Saturday's Critters

Caterpillar Trek

I've been looking at bugs again lately, specifically monarch larva. The caterpillars have devoured every green sprig on the large butterfly milkweed plant in my flowerbed where they were hatched, and they are on the move, searching for the perfect place to form a chrysalis. Imagine having to buy your groceries blindfolded at Walmart, and you have the idea.

I kneel down to observe the journey, and it's maddening to watch, like a thriller in slow motion. 

The small creature before me crawls to the end of a long leaf that leads nowhere, 

grips the end of the leaf with his back legs and flails back and forth, groping in the air for any new purchase...

...before turning around and heading back to where where he started. 

At the bottom, a thin blade of grass presents itself, and from the sidelines I call out "No! Bad move! Turn back!", but he is not listening. Half way up the frail stem, the grass doubles over under the weight of the the caterpillar and dumps him to the ground. Then he's up again, walking toward the nearest stem that will take him to a frail leaf and another setback, and, like Serena Williams' father during a tense tennis match, I have to walk away.

One way or another, they all manage to find their places without my help. With thin silken strands, they attach their back end to some stem or leaf. 

Falling limp, they dangle upside down, curled into a J shape. Then they wait. 

When the moment is right, a transformation takes place and a chrysalis is formed, an exquisite jewel studded with fine gold. 
In the next ten days, more or less, a butterfly will develop inside the shelter of this bright green package, 
and for the time being, at least, I can exhale.



Linking with Saturday's Critters